


A Self Made Fear

by SnowStormSkies



Category: Tokio Hotel
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Dubious Consent, M/M, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-11-27 07:17:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowStormSkies/pseuds/SnowStormSkies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The prompt was this : <i>I am recycling one of my old prompts that got ALMOST filled twice but NEVER really:-)</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>"Now, a fear of orgasm is not an unknown phenomenon in females. It is a fear of losing control and submitting to pleasure.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>This time though I would like to see our lovely "matcho" Tom (botTom!!!) suffering from it instead when having sex with Bill. He is mentally blocked from orgasming because of his deeply rooted fear of losing the total contact and connection with his twin when lost in approaching extatic climax.</i></p><p> </p><p>  </p><p> </p><p>  <i>I would like it to be written mainly as a mental kink , concentrating on his mind and mental state rather that too detailed technicalities of intercourse itself. This time around the twins make it really happen, fighting together to get Tom there.</i><br/>Twincest cookies for panicky, railed up Tom, clawing Tom, sobbing Tom and enormously gentle, soothing, supportive, guiding, in control "I have got you" Bill."</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Thanks a lot in advance! </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The kink meme is my biggest friend for prompts, but thanks to Casey for the beta, and Ksena for the coding :D

**The Distance Between  
**

**~*~**

  
  


Twenty seven months.

It has been twenty seven months since… since…

Tom throws his phone down on the bed, sick of working how long he’s been the way he has. A day like this would be too much. He’s been like he has for over two years now. It’s never been easy for him: never. He’s spent so long trying to cover it up, and the more he tries to ignore it, the worse it seems to get.

He doesn’t know why, okay? That’s the fucking way it is. He’s stuck like this, stuck on the edge, stuck on the outside, looking in…

He’s just stuck.

In the bathroom, Tom hears the shower start, and he flinches. Maybe Bill is angry with him; maybe he’s just angry at himself, who knows? But the way he’d got up, so hurriedly, and slammed the bathroom door behind him, told Tom that it would be a bad idea to follow.

He punches the duvet and buries his head beside his clenched fist. Why him? Why now?

Between his legs a dull ache is spreading, and he curls up tighter. He’s half hard, aching for release, but he knows it won’t come. He knows it won’t.

Because it never does.

When he was first hitting puberty, orgasms came a dime a dozen to Bill, but he managed… maybe one a week. Mostly less. Even when he started having a sexual relationship with his brother, and they’d started pushing each other to have more, Tom had been stuck at a low limit because he struggled with it, alright?

There. Okay. He admits it.

Tom Kaulitz struggles with sex. As in, he can't do it. And it isn’t because it is Bill he is having sex with.

Because it really isn’t.

He thought it might be that in the beginning, so he'd tried it with a girl, and then another and then another, and then he’d been forced to cover it up, play it off as having an incredibly fast recovery time, because he’d never come in the first place as he fucked them in hotel rooms and club bathrooms and backrooms. He’d tried it with his hand, a toy, a boy, a magazine and a bottle of lube, and nothing. Ever. Happened. Not then, not now.

It’s a block.

And it isn’t physical.

Because Bill had dragged him, on pain of cutting him off for the rest of his life at sixteen, (and it turned out that wouldn’t have sucked so bad because it still hasn’t gone away two and a half years later) to a doctor’s office where he’d had to drop his pants and have his dick touched by a doctor who was very professional but had fucking cold hands.

And she had found nothing wrong with him.

Not a single thing wrong with his dick or his balls or his pipes and tubes. He had a healthy sperm count, a good amount of ejaculate (actually, she had told him it was in the top half percent of the population, it was that healthy), and his dick and balls were within acceptable guidelines for size, weight, curvature, length, and colour. No tumours, no cysts, no infections, no lesions. Nothing was wrong with Tom physically, and then she had sat there and told him very gently, it must be in his head, because it wasn’t his anatomy that was betraying him.

It was like getting a hammer blow to the chest.

It wasn’t something he could fix with a pill or a cream. It was him. He was wrong inside the mind.

Bill had long since assumed Tom had a low sex drive, but when Tom had finally, after three weeks of wandering around in shock from the doctor’s prognosis, told him, he hadn’t understood.

And neither had Tom, at the time.

It had taken them years to work out that Tom feared losing his connection to Bill, his twin bond, and his only constant. That fear had kept Tom from reaching the peak of his pleasure because down the other side, he believed he might not find that bond again.

And he wouldn’t risk it.

He wouldn’t risk his love for Bill for the sake of pleasure.

And so, here they were twenty seven months from Tom’s last orgasm, and he might have just blown the only chance he had at continuing the relationship.

Bill had offered, come to him, let Tom take him, and after he’d come, he had offered Tom the chance to ejaculate, begged him to just trust Bill for God’s sake, and Tom couldn’t do it. He’d tried. He had tried so damn hard, so damn hard to just give in, let the pleasure override his fear and his worries… and just let it happen.

And he’d gotten so close, but then he’d got scared, so fucking scared and he’d pushed Bill’s hand away and told him to stop, and that had been that.

And now, Tom lies face down on a king sized bed with silk sheets, in the middle of a country he doesn’t remember the name of, and he quite probably just ruined his only chance with his soulmate to make this right.

God fuck the world.

Because Tom can’t.

\--

Bill is in the bathroom for one hundred and six minutes. Tom counts every one of them on the clock on the bedside table, while he sprawls on top of the covers, naked and ashamed of himself. He hears Bill pacing for most of that, both before and after his shower, and Tom knows it's because of him. He knows it is.

It’s not enough to love Bill. It’s not enough to give up his barely realised dream of being an artist to be Bill’s lead guitarist in Black Question Mark all those years ago. It’s not enough to go travelling the world with Bill, to stand by his side and earn the band award after award after award, going from strength to strength. It’s not enough to stay up for forty eight hours straight composing music and lyrics, and fighting to get executives to accept changes to music that needs to be changed before the album goes on sale. It’s not enough for Tom to love Bill and give him everything, including his heart and his soul.

It’s not enough for Bill if it doesn’t include his pleasure as well.

And that's virtually nonexistent these days.

He’s cold, and tired, and he aches between his legs because his orgasm never happened ( _since when does it happen these days, Tomi?_ a snide voice in the back of his head asks, and it sounds a lot like Bill) and when Bill comes out, he doesn’t want to look at him.

“I’m sorry, Tom.”

“…What?” Why the hell is Bill apologising? He’s not the one who’s fucked up in the head-

“I’m sorry for pushing you like that.” Bill is wearing a pair of scruffy pyjamas – an old concert t-shirt, and a pair of baggy cotton sweatpants. He’s not got any makeup on, and his hair is tied back in a scruffy ponytail. He looks… normal. Ordinary. Like Tom’s brother, his lover, his soulmate.

Not Bill Kaulitz, the rockstar.

Tom has seen a bit too much of that Bill recently. Too many interviews, and concerts, and meetings with agents and management and executives to make that Bill familiar and friendly anymore.

“Why’re you sorry?” Tom mumbles, squirming around to rest his head on Bill’s lap. He feels a little more at ease with Bill like this and him naked. They don't usually spend time like this unless it's really hot, but right now, it feels right. He's too worked up to actually get up off the bed and start wearing clothes, and Bill is too comfy a pillow anyway.

“Because I think I need to stop demanding and forcing you when... When you obviously can't.” Bill smiles down at him, but there’s a lot of sadness in his eyes. “I want to help you, Tom, but I can’t do it if you don’t want me to.”

“I do want you to…” Tom sighs, "But, you know...."

But something is up now, and Tom is starting to notice that Bill has been manoeuvring him, putting him where Bill wants him for some reason, and that reason can never be good.

“Bill…” Tom tries to move away again, but Bill holds him close, his forearm braced across Tom’s neck, and suddenly Tom is very very aware of the imbalance of power here. Bill is wiry and stronger than he looks, and Tom is naked and flat out on the bed.

“No, stop. Please… Listen to me.” But Bill’s arm doesn’t move, and when he swallows, Tom can feel his Adam’s apple bob against it. “I want to help you. The doctor said it’s all in your head, and I believe her. I think you’re afraid-“

“Fuck you, Bill.” This was not how Tom wanted to have this conversation, and he tries to bring his fist up to clock Bill in the jaw – screw playing nice, he’s done too much of it recently; agreeing to sex, letting Bill push him to try to orgasm, trying to reach that peak against his own better judgement…

But Bill grabs his hand, holds his arm away from him,and they’re pretty much evenly matched, especially because Tom hasn’t slept in fifty hours because of tour panic because one of his guitars is missing at the moment, and Bill is better rested and better fed to boot because Tom can't eat when he's panicking.

“Get the fuck off of me!” Tom growls, only it’s not quite a growl – more a panicked begging, and he bucks up, needing to be away from Bill right now because it’s too close, too much, too difficult.

“No.” Bill is like the proverbial oncoming storm, determined and persistent, and gradually Tom is forced onto his back, spread eagled for Bill to see in his naked glory, his dick still limp and unresponsive. It’s like the final nail in Tom’s coffin, his lover seeing that he can’t even pop wood like this, when Bill is already half hard from the rough housing. Bill straddles him, holding him down effortlessly, and it’s yet another injustice because Tom is supposed to be the stronger twin, not Bill.

He refuses to look at Bill, blinks back tears, and clamps his lips together. He won’t cry, and he won’t beg to be let up. He’s Tom fucking Kaulitz, and he’s got his pride, torn and tattered though it may be.

“Look at me?” Bill asks, and Tom shakes his head. He won’t do it. “Look at me, please.” It’s fucking rare to hear Bill say please, but Tom doesn’t care. He won’t do it.

“No.” He’s riding ever closer to alienating Bill for a long time, getting the cold shoulder for weeks, but Bill is fucking humiliating him right now, and that’s just not going to fly.

“Why not, Tom?” Bill tries another approach. “Why won’t you look at me?”

“…Because…” Damn his goddamn mouth for trying to answer. Tom clams up. Hard.

“Oh, Tom…” Bill sighs, leaning down to nuzzle at Tom, and he does nuzzle, rubbing his head in the crook of Tom’s neck, pressing their cheeks together. “I love you,” he whispers into Tom’s ear.

“Bill…” Tom whispers back, and he doesn’t know what he wants to say.

“Please look at me,” Bill begs, and he begs again and again when Tom shakes his head until… until Tom nods.

He gazes up into Bill’s eyes, and they’re worried and dark, and there’s a little furrow between his brows as he stares down at Tom.

“Thank you,” he says, and his voice is still soft. “I want to help you, Tom. I really do.”

“Why?” It’s all he can think of.

“Because before, I wanted you to come for selfish reasons. I wanted to see your face when you found that pleasure, see you enjoy the same rush and buzz that I’ve always had, you know? But …” Bill shrugs. “It’s not about me. It’s about you.”

“…Um… What?” Tom is way confused right now.

“It isn’t about me. It’s about you,” Bill repeats. “It’s about what your pleasure is, and how we can get you there, together.”

“Wha- together?” Tom is still confused, and Bill is starting to smile at him.

“You. And me. Working together to get you to come.” He leans down, presses his forehead to Tom’s, smiles at him from close range. “I want to help you. How long has it been?”

“Umm. I don-“ Tom stops the lie cold before it can get any further and get him into trouble. “Twenty seven months, two weeks, six days.” He has a little green X and lots of little red ones on the calendar counting off that exact number of days.

“Really?”

“Really really.” Bill raises his eyebrow at Tom’s parroting. “Yes, I mean it. I’ve been close, and I figure I must have done a couple during the night, but that was the last time I had one that I was in control of.”

“Fuck.” Bill looks surprised and a little worried. “Are you …alright down there?”

Tom colours because of what Bill is implying. He’s fine downstairs, thanks. It’s his head that’s fucked up. “I’m fine. Passed my last physical, didn’t I?”

“Oh. Yeah. Right.” Bill swallows back whatever else he was going to say, and Tom narrows his eyes. “What about before that?”

“I don’t know…” Tom tries to fudge his words, but again, Bill is having none of it. “About once or twice every four months. If that…”

“…I thought we had sex more often than that…” Bill’s kind of sketchy on details for a lot of things, but sex isn’t one of them. “Or didn’t you…?” He leaves it implied, but Tom doesn’t.

“No. I didn’t come, but you did.” It’s the truth. Normally, he'd fuck Bill raw with sheer strength of will keeping him hard, but as soon as Bill comes, winds down and turns into a sleepy mess, Tom sort of … deflates, for want of a better word, turns soft inside the condom, and like last time, he’d been left to dispose of the empty latex in the bathroom bin while he tried so fucking hard not break down and cry because of his failures.

As a man, as a lover, as a rockstar, as a human fucking being.

It happened every time they had sex during the twenty seven months from hell, and almost every time during the preceding years. When they have full on sex at least once or twice a week, and bedroom fun at least three times, it adds up to a whole lot of failure for Tom. He can even remember the last orgasm he had; twenty third of March, 2006, when they were alone in the studio flat, planning lyrics for yet another song that had never made it to an album or show.

It had been nothing special, a little rough and tumble on the living room couch, Bill jacking him off against his naked belly, and that in itself seems a little poor show to Tom now. If he had known it would be his last one, he would have made it far more worthwhile.

On a paper ten year calendar he got when he graduated from little school to big school that he keeps at the very bottom of his cap bag, he marks off every orgasm he’s ever had since he first knew what they were. In little green marker pen, he has a little cross for every day he had one. And in red, a little cross for every day he didn’t. The calendar starts back in 2003, and he has a small number of green crosses spread across five years. It means he averaged all the way back then, roughly, one every four or five months period.

Roughly. He has a lot of time between green crosses it seems, but those days with a red and a blue cross mean days when he had sex with Bill but didn’t come.

There are a lot of red and blue cross days. A lot.

In five years, he’s had less orgasms than Bill can manage in about a single three month tour.

It fucking sucks, it does.

When he lets Bill know this, his brother’s eyes widen. “Four or five _months_ between orgasm?” he bleats, incredulously. “I can’t manage four or five days!”

“Thanks so much for your sensitivity, Bill,” Tom snaps back, tartly. It stings that his own personal best was two in a month, and that was long ago now that he’s apparently on this celibacy bender from hell.

“Wh- oh. Fuck, I’m sorry, Tom.” Bill looks worried, but Tom shrugs. It hurts, and he’s probably not going to get over it any time soon, but it doesn’t mean Bill gets to boast about his prowess. “So it’s been two and a quarter years since you stopped being able to come?” He tries to return the conversation back to a slightly safer, if just as unpleasant topic.

“Yeah. Roughly.”

“And before that one, how long ago?”

“Three months.”

“Jesus fuck, Tom.” Bill is apparently beating himself up over something, and Tom would like to know what. “How the hell did you manage?”

“I coped,” Tom mutters, looking straight at the ceiling. He did cope. He shoved the sex mags he brought for show under his bed, never to be looked at again, watched a few pornos of Georg’s to get ideas of how to make things up to impress other guys, and basically lied his way through every encounter with women.

“But… didn’t you want to?” Bill is searching his face for something – anything – but Tom doesn’t understand what Bill wants from him.

“Yes.” He did. He wanted so bad to come, to feel the rush and burn in his body and his mind, to enjoy the lazy boneless feeling that came with orgasm. But he couldn’t. If he tried, all he got was a mental block, and a heavy ache in his pelvis that didn’t go away for hours, so he’d stopped.

“Did you try?”

“Yes.” He’d tried everything, and got precisely nowhere. So he’d stopped trying for girls, stopped trying to compete with Bill, accepted his lot in life as one that wasn’t exactly celibate but not sexually fulfilling to say the least, and got on with it. He had his guitar: he had his lover who he could please with his fingers and his mouth, and maybe even his dick when he’d…

“When you’d what?” Bill is holding his face in his hands, but Tom doesn’t want to answer. It’s fucking embarrassing admitting that you’d popped Viagra to help you fuck your own lover because even getting hard was becoming more difficult.

“…Why is it getting difficult?”

“Probably because I know I won’t come, so…” Tom shrugs, “so I guess Tom Junior ain’t in the mood to play these days.”

“But Viagra?!” Bill mouths. “Since when was it that damn bad?”

“Since about two months ago, and I told you no, I couldn’t, and you said you were desperate and horny, and if I didn’t produce a dick for you to ride in ten minutes or less, you’d go and find someone else,” Tom snaps, and it’s true.

“…What?”

It had been the night of a promo party, and Bill had been more than a little drunk. But a drunk Bill was a dangerous Bill, and Tom knew hand on heart that if he hadn’t done something, Bill could have done something quite dangerous for the band.

And quite final for their relationship.

He’d brought the Viagra through the black market a few days before, and if he hadn’t been so desperate that night to make Bill stay with him, he would have just thrown them away in the morning out of disgust at himself for sinking so low as to buy the little blue pills…

Bill had fallen asleep on Tom’s bed, sated sexually and his need for twin time finally appeased and Tom had spent six hours in the bathroom, waiting for his dick to return to normal. He hadn’t touched it, hadn’t even pulled down his boxers or his pyjamas. He’d just sat on the floor beside the bath, and wept in humiliation at his own hated cock.

He couldn’t get hard without help, he couldn’t have sex without chemical intervention, he couldn’t deal with his own pleasure without fear, and panic and failure.

Waking up the next morning on the bathroom tile floor, cold, and stiff everywhere but his dick had been a deeply unpleasant experience, but until now, Bill had never known the truth.

Until now.

“Why, Tomi?” Bill whispers, and Tom stares resolutely at the ceiling. He’s accepted it. He’s not got a low sex drive, he just has a normal one that’s fading out of lack of use, and he’ll never be able to compete with Bill in terms of sex. Being able to offer comfort to Bill is enough for him now. He’s had a long time to come to terms with the truth, and it fucking hurts, but it’s got to be enough or he’ll just end up hurting himself and Bill more.

“Oh, Tomi…” Bill is crying, and Tom is sick with fear because Bill doesn’t cry. He doesn’t. Only when something is seriously wrong does Bill cry, and Tom doesn’t like to see it, even now.

“Bill?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Bill is holding his face in his hands again, staring Tom right in the eyes. “Why didn’t you let me know?”

“Know what?” Tom doesn’t understand.

“Everything. Your dick not working, you taking Viagra, your fears, your worries... how long it’s been since I could satisfy you?” Bill’s face is open, honest, and earnest. And Tom hates the words that are going to come out of his mouth, but Bill says them anyway. “Why didn’t you let me help you?”

“Because there is nothing you can do!” Tom snaps back, and he doesn’t mean to be angry, but it’s fucking true. There is nothing Bill can do for him. He’s going to have less and less orgasms, and by the time he’s twenty three, his cock will be a non-functional piece of skin and flesh and nerves and tissue that he might as well have taken off for all the good it’ll do him. By the time he’s twenty five, Tom has calculated, he’ll be on orgasms less than once a decade, and his entire sexual experience will be directed onto Bill – his limited sexual history of orgasms long faded and useless to him. That’s how it’ll work. That’s how he’ll live the rest of his fucking life.

And if Bill decides that having sex with Tom… just isn’t worth the pain and the hassle anymore, and he finds himself someone else, then Tom will just have to live with it. He’ll buy himself a dog, and a set of weights, and he’ll have to be content with those to keep him company through the long days and the lonely nights of the rest of his God given days.

He’s thought about this way too fucking much.

“But I could have done something!” Bill bites back, jabbing a finger into Tom’s chest. “I could have taken you to-to a fucking therapist, or we could have gotten you some fucking pills, or I could have at least known what was going on with my goddamn twin, for fuck’s sake!”

He’s weeping openly now, and Tom feels a strong urge to join him, but he can’t because he isn’t right.

“There _is_ nothing you can do!” He shouts, and Bill shushes him, worried about the neighbours hearing, but Tom pushes the finger on his lips away and carries on. “I’m broken, okay? I am fucking broken, and busted, and my dick is useless, and nothing you say or do to me, or for me, or with me is going to change that!”

“Stop it!”

But Tom carries on “I am ruined and you can’t change the fact that I couldn’t get it up for you if someone held a gun to your head and told me they’d shoot you if I couldn’t pop wood.” He struggles to sit up but Bill holds him down and that just makes Tom even angrier. “I am wrong, Bill, I am fucking wrong and dead weight, and all I can offer you is my fingers, and my hands, and my heart because my dick and my sex drive just doesn’t work anymore!” He’s raging at his lover, held flat to the bed though he is and Bill is crying, the tears dripping down onto Tom’s face and mixing with his own streaming tears.

“Oh, Tom….”

“Don’t you get it, Bill? It’s not you. It’s me. Me and my stupid fucking head, and my insecurities, and my fears that have taken everything away.” Tom turns his head away, tries to breathe slowly. “I’m done. I’m just done with sex, and everything else as well, if you don’t want me.”

Bill doesn’t say anything.

He leans down and kisses Tom, and their grief mixes, and Tom doesn’t understand what Bill wants from him.

But the brief touch of lips feels a lot like a goodbye.


	2. Chapter 2

**A Promise Made  
**

**~*~**

 

 

It’s been two weeks since Tom confessed to Bill exactly what’s wrong with him. Two very long, very weird weeks.

He wonders if he shouldn’t have told, even after Bill begged him, but he doesn’t know if Bill leaves him what he'll do. Working in the band alongside his twin would be torture after they split, and he doesn't know if he can ever survive seeing Bill date somebody else.

And Tom hates himself, but he's already making plans. He’s thinking of what he can do to minimise the risk to the band and to his and Bill’s working relationship, and on his laptop, he has a tab saved that’s for estate agents’ websites and looking for apartments near the studio, so he and Bill don’t have to spend too much time together if it’s too hard.

He’s also been thinking about what’s at home, absently making lists during the few minutes of downtime he gets here and there, and what he can leave for Bill, and what he needs to take with him. Stuff like his desk and his bed can just stay there, really; he needs a new mattress and frame anyways since he spends most of his time in his brother’s, and well, once you break up, it’s apparently not proper etiquette to keep on sharing the same mattress. He needs to think about what to do with other stuff like the DVD collection and their music equipment.

Their lives have been intertwined for eighteen years and more. How the fuck is he meant to start dividing it up?

He can’t tell if Bill’s been doing the same, or if he’s just making sure that Tom is doing all the heavy work - which is honestly more likely. To be honest, it never occurred to Tom that he wouldn’t be the one to leave. It’s all his fault, isn’t it?

But Bill’s been quiet and pensive whenever they’ve been alone together, carrying around a notebook and jotting stuff in it every so often, and when Gustav tried to look in it, Bill smacked him. Hard. And then took it away and spent the evening locked in the den to piss everyone else off.

Tom rubs his thumb against his bottom lip and sighs. Outside the patio doors, the sun is blazing, and even though it’s early in the day, only eleven o’clock, it’s starting to get seriously hot. He should be relishing this time off because they’ve got the weekend to themselves before starting on another round of press junkets and stuff on Tuesday.

But he can’t.

He’s terrified he’s being abandoned by his soulmate, and as much as having a dog and weights to keep him company sounds survivable, he knows it won’t be.

A shadow falls on the patio outside, and he looks up

“Morning, Tom.” Bill smiles at him, and it’s way early for Bill to be up. He’s usually in bed till two or three in the afternoon, but for the last few days, he’s been up and awake before ten, going shopping with a bodyguard but without Tom, secreting purchases in his rooms or in his cases and ordering Tom not to look.

“Hi.” He’s hesitant, not wanting to upset Bill, and Tom offers Bill his untouched coffee. “You want?”

“Oh, thank you!” Bill grins, plucking the green mug from his hands, greedily consuming the lightly sweetened cappuccino. “Mmm, been looking forward to one of those all day.”

“Yeah.” Tom rubs his finger against a knot in the pine of the table. “Yeah.”

“You alright, Tom?” Bill puts the coffee down, steps closer to where Tom is sitting in a chair at the dining table. “You’ve been quiet recently...”

“Mmm.” Tom tries to shrug it off, but Bill puts his hand under Tom’s chin, tipping his head back and forcing him to look straight into his eyes.

“Twin connection, Tom. Stop lying.”

Tom bites his lip, feels Bill’s thumb rub his lip ring, and he sighs. “I’m just... a bit worried. That’s all.”

“About what?” Bill’s voice is very soft and gentle now.

“About... about...” Tom waves his hand at his groin, blushes, swallows hard. It’s hard for him to talk about it in the light of day, and it’s kind of... humiliating.

“I have a plan for that.” Bill kisses him softly, and Tom looks up at him surprised. “It’s taken a little while, but I think I have it figured out.”

“You...have?”

“I have.” Bill nods with resolve in his eyes, and Tom knows, hand on heart, he’ll have to disappoint Bill tonight. Have to ruin his hopes because he’s not feeling it at all. No jive happening, just like it hasn’t happened for months on end, and he’s just sick of trying because it just ends in fighting between the two of them.

"Are we okay?" Tom hates how nervous he sounds, but he needs to find out what their position is, if Bill is mad at him.

"Hmmm...?" Bill is unconcerned, happily thumbing through his phone as he drinks more of the coffee.

“Are we okay, Bill?” Tom bites his lip, and Bill looks up at the seriousness of his tone. Tom feels off kilter, and he needs that reassurance that they _are_ okay. That they’re good and strong and still them, even though Bill has a plan and a set up for tonight.

Bill puts his phone down, pulls Tom’s t-shirt until he’s standing upright, and they’re facing each other. Tom breathes in, and he can almost taste the scent of Bill. A finger lifts his chin to stare directly into Bill’s eyes. “We are more than okay, Tom,” Bill reassures. “We are better than okay. Tonight, I have a plan-”

“What plan?” Tom tries to take a step back because Bill and plans don’t always go together that well, but Bill shakes his head, wraps an arm around his shoulder, holds him tight to his chest. “Bill!”

“A plan that will change everything.” The words that Bill murmurs in his ear start his heart racing and his vision blurring. It’s not really that cryptic on the surface ,but Tom is very aware that Bill is more than just his brother in this moment; he is his lover, his guiding light… his dominant force. Right now, Tom has to take a backseat to Bill and trust that his brother will guide him through the difficulties he’s going to go through to get to the place that Bill has designated as the goal.

He’s scared. That’s the simple truth. Tom Kaulitz is scared, and it’s not because someone is holding a knife to his throat or a gun to his head. It’s because he is scared of falling down, of failing, of **disappointing** Bill, and he knows that if Bill’s plan happens tonight, it will fail. He’s not feeling even the tiniest bit like having sex, and he knows that Bill will push past those objections anyway.

“B-… I-…” he stumbles, trying to explain himself, and Bill presses him even closer, smoothing a hand down the back of his neck.

“Shush, Tom,” he murmurs, and his fingers are soothing on Tom’s skin. “We are going to figure this out. We’re going to make this work. Both of us. Together.” A gentle kiss is pressed behind Tom’s ear, and he sighs, leaning into Bill.

He hasn’t got a choice. He’s got to try, if not for himself, then for Bill. If it doesn’t work then it doesn’t work, and he’s given Bill the chance to see it for himself.

After that, who knows? But he has to show that he’s at least willing to try; he knows that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Rich Waters and Preparations  
**

**~*~**

Bill is fucking around in the bathroom with something, and Tom’s left outside, confused. He’s been told to put on a robe after stripping down, and he’s feeling a little… stupid, sitting on the edge of the bed wearing a fluffy dressing gown and nothing else. Outside it’s still sunny but the sky is tinted pink at the horizon, and he knows that it will soon be night.

It would be kind of funny, like a cheap romance flick sort of date, but Tom is less suave lover right now, more nervous virgin waiting for her first time. Bill has dictated every step of tonight, _requesting_ that Tom leave the details up to him, and okay, maybe Tom just lets sex happen normally because initiating it is… embarrassing to say the least, but it really stresses him out that Bill is being all mysterious about it.

“Tom?”

Bill leans out of the doorway, his jeans and t-shirt splashed with water, but his face is bright and smiling. Whatever he’s done, he’s proud of it. “Come in, Tom.”

“’kay.” Bill holds his hand out for Tom, and Bill pulls him into the room with a laugh and a bright flash of teeth.

The room has been prepared – there’s candles everywhere, and Bill has run the tub so it’s full and gently steaming, and there’s a faint smell in the air of something vaguely sweet and musky. Probably meant to turn a chick on, but all Tom’s getting is the urge to crack the window a little wider.

“I don’t need to be seduced.” He turns to Bill, and speaks bluntly. He doesn’t. He knows what’s going to happen tonight – sex, and then failure. Or rather, _attempted_ sex and _significant_ failure, followed, quite possibly, by the absolute destruction of their relationship and maybe even the fucking band. He doesn’t need to be seduced into treading down that road. Candles and a hot bath are not going to change that.

He’s stupid for allowing Bill to do this to him, but he’s willing to walk down that road with his eyes _wide_ open, thanks.

“I’m not trying to seduce you.” Bill leans in close, kisses him gently right on the lips. Tom remains stiff and barely kisses back. “I’m _not_. I want to _relax_ you, Tom. Right now, if we tried anything, failure is guaranteed. I’d like to at least start with a chance, you know?”

“So this…” Tom waves his hand towards the sink, with a dozen candles sending shadows up the wall. “This isn’t a seduction?”

“Well... kinda.” Bill looks a little guilty. “How often do I get to spoil you?”

“…Not often,” Tom admits. It’s true. Tom’s done this for Bill, back when his dick used to work on occasion - set up the candles nice and pretty, run a bath, let Bill soak in scented bubbles until he came out pliant and seductive, but that’s _Bill_. Not Tom.

“Tom. _Tomi_.” Bill pulls him around to stare him right straight in the face. “Please. Stop thinking, and stop worrying, and stop comparing and just _trust_ me.”

“But…”

“ _Trust me._ ” Bill rubs his thumb across Tom’s bottom lip, caressing the lip ring there. “Just let me make the decisions right now, and trust that I know what I’m doing. Can you do that?”

“ _Wh-_ ”

“Right now, I need you to not _think_ or worry, or start asking questions. I need to you to believe in me.” Tom stares in Bill’s eyes, and his twin stares right back, open and honest and _determined_. There’s nothing but the truth in those eyes, and Tom almost takes a step back to shield not himself but _Bill_. Being honest like that is rare for them, and for Bill to be using it like he does now… it means he’s beyond serious. Tom is putting himself in Bill’s hands, and he should remember that every time he’s done it before he’s always come out the other side better than before. There’s no reason that tonight will be any different.

“Yes, Bill.”

“What?”

“Yes, I trust you.” He really should. Bill is his other half, and if anyone knows what’s good for Tom, it’s Bill. Dancing around the subject is only going to get him hurt.

“Good.” Bill smiles, leans in and kisses him, and it’s a physical forgiveness of Tom’s previous mistrust. He reaches down, undoes the loose knot of the belt, and Tom sighs his permission. The dressing gown is undone carefully, pushed off his shoulders, and he would feel embarrassed by being naked when Bill is so definitely not, but he’s not given the chance. He guides Tom to the bath, telling him to get in and get comfortable, since he’s supposed to chill out for a long time, and Tom rolls his eyes. Bill thinks lounging in the tub is the height of chilled out, but Tom isn’t quite so convinced.

But whatever.

The water is nice and hot, and there’s oil in there too, and with the candles and the sweet musk, it’s actually quite nice. Tom rolls his shoulders, leans back, and finds with a small sense of pleasure that Bill has also been thoughtful enough to put in a bath cushion so it’s even more relaxing.

Never let it be said that Bill does not think of _everything_.

“Take your time.” Bill leans in, and brushes a hand across Tom’s chest. His skin is slick from the wet in the air and Bill smooths his fingers down, brushing over Tom’s nipple and down to the lapping surface of the water. He doesn’t go any deeper, but just the sensation of touch is enough to make Tom shiver with pleasant anticipation.

“You stayin’?” he asks, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

“No. I’m going to go and prepare the bedroom now.”

“If I find rose petals out there, you’ll give me a fucking complex, Bill,” he mumbles, without actually opening his eyes, and Bill chuckles.

“No rose petals. Promise.” He strokes across Tom’s chest once more, thumbing the little nub of flesh. “Enjoy.”

Tom doesn’t respond out loud, just lets the water wash over him, but he does stroke his finger down Bill’s arm as he gets up, and that’s enough to let him know he heard.

When the door clicks shut behind Bill, Tom takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Bill has this under control, and all Tom should do is let himself be carried along in his wake. It’s kinda nice actually. Spending so much time pleasing Bill does not leave a lot of time for pleasing Tom, so he plans to capitalise on this.

Outside, there’s no noise at all, and inside the bathroom is a silent oasis of calm stillness. Tom breathes in and out, and the warm water feels almost like it’s caressing him, holding him close.

He drifts, and dreams.

\--

How much time has passed since Bill left him in here, Tom doesn’t know. He drifts on the surface of sleep, dipping into daydreams and dozing, but never completely going under into sleep. He doesn’t hear any noise from outside the room, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing going on – just that there’s nothing loud happening.

There’s a soft knock at the door, and Tom almost starts. He opens his eyes to see Bill letting himself into the room.

“Hey,” he says softly, and Tom smiles at him. “How you doing?”

“Very zen,” Tom confesses, and it’s true. He’s feeling so chilled out and relaxed, he can barely remember what stress means.

“Perfect!” Bill steps closer to the bathtub, and for the first time, Tom notices Bill has changed clothes – he’s wearing a black silk kaftan that Tom brought for him in Berlin because he complained constantly of having nothing to wear over his pyjamas in the summer.

“Nice.” Tom nods his head towards the garment, and Bill shrugs.

“It’s too hot for clothes, Tom.”

“Oh, now that’s just cheesy, Bill.” Tom laughs a little, breathless and soft, and Bill grins at him, unashamed of his words.

“So? You ready to get out then?”

“Do I have to?” He’s so relaxed he might just drifts off to sleep at the moment, but Bill shakes his head.

“Come on.” He reaches out, takes a towel off the side, and unfolds it. It’s huge, a bath sheet that cascades down to the floor in a brilliant cream waterfall, and Tom is suddenly very tempted to be wrapped in it.

It looks like a cloud in Bill’s hands.

He rises, steps out of the bath, and accepts Bill’s hand to steady himself as he wobbles. He feels change in altitude a lot more getting out than getting in, and he ends up clutching Bill’s shoulder rather more firmly than he would have liked.

“Easy,” Bill says, softly, waiting until Tom relaxes his tight grip. Then he begins to dry Tom. Evidently, this is a full service bath, and Tom just enjoys the interesting sensation of the towel on his legs, his ankles, his waist, his arms. Bill is gentle but thorough, and there’s nothing to do but accept the touches until Bill is satisfied.

Normally, he would have stolen the towel, done it himself because he’s a big boy and used to drying himself, but Tom recognises that Bill is calling the shots, and if he wants to dry Tom himself, that’s his right, and Tom has to just take it. Reclining into the role of the submissive is hard for Tom. He’s used to – not being on the top, exactly but fighting for that role on occasion or having it divided equally between him and Bill, or just being plain one of the two top dogs in the room and having people accept that.

But Bill is determined and matter of fact about it – not demanding Tom’s relinquishing of control, but simply expecting it, calmly relieving Tom of the reigns tonight and telling him not to react to it.

Tom rests his hands on the counter as Bill dries his back, and he visualises the stress and the tension falling away, like skins being peeled away from his bones and flesh. Bill says nothing, understanding that Tom is struggling to cope in his own way right now, and he just allows him to deal with it.

He relaxes into the touch, the sensations of the soft material, and Bill smooths away any last vestiges of terror about tonight as he caresses Tom’s hands, his thighs, and his backside. There’s nothing inherently sexual in the touches, but Tom feels the anticipation in the air and he feels the old feelings start to surge.

His dick remains flaccid though, and the shame of that is also beginning to course through his veins.


	4. Chapter 4

**On Cotton Sheets...  
**

**~*~**

In the bedroom, Bill has continued his theme of ‘seduction’, though thankfully not to the extent of rose petals strewn across the floor and the bed. There are candles carefully placed around the room, and the curtains are drawn, lending the room a dark red glow from the coloured lamps on the bedside tables. The bed has been stripped back, and Tom is surprised to see the sheets have been changed – they’re pale golden cream, and he’s insanely, irrationally glad to see such an unassuming colour. If Bill had put red or, heaven forbid, _black_ sheets on the bed, Tom might have just bolted back to the bathroom, locked the door, and gone back to hiding in the tub.

“Come on, Tom.” Bill is behind him, pushing him gently forward, and there’s nothing to do but give in to the pressure. He walks forward, letting Bill guide him around the left side of the bed, being turned around, following Bill’s unspoken instructions to lie back across the bed. The sheets are soft, cool, and Tom fists them absently as he watches Bill reach across the bed.

Bill tucks a pillow under Tom’s head, and his eyes are dark as he helps Tom bring his heels to rest on the edge of the bed, spreading himself wide with the position despite his innate desire to remain covered up, concealed, hidden away from Bill’s intense gaze.

“Shush.” Bill rubs a hand down Tom’s thigh, tracing the lines of the veins that can be seen just under the surface, green and blue and purple – a network of life beneath his skin. Tom’s pulse skitters and jumps as Bill caresses the juncture at his hip, and he has to close his eyes. He’s panting already, struggling to stay calm, and even though he _trusts_ Bill with his life, he’s still terrified, just a breath away from pulling away and begging to be left alone. “You’re okay, Tom.” Bill doesn’t stop his stroking, just keeps the same regular, soft pace, and he keeps talking as well. “You’re okay. I’m here. It’s just us, okay? You know me…”

And Tom does know Bill. He’s known him all his life – known him before he knew what _life_ was. They’ve always been together, from the womb through the hell that was school and now the amazing whirlwind of bright lights and cameras and glitter that’s fame and fortune. Right the way through, it’s been _Bill_ and **Tom** , together against the world.

So why is Tom so afraid now?

He moans, and some of it’s fear and some it is self-recrimination for not trusting his other half, and it might even have some desire in there – somewhere deep down that Tom can hardly admit to himself – and he throws an arm over his eyes, trying to block out everything else.

Bill doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up on touching Tom – instead, he reaches out with his other hand, starts stroking along Tom’s hip, tracing the curve of bone underneath the skin, and Tom lets his knees fall even further apart. He’s totally exposed to Bill now – spread wide and utterly naked to Bill’s gaze, and he feels the heat of it travel along his belly, up his chest, resting on his face as he flushes.

He’s not even got hair to hide behind – Bill booked him for a full body wax down at the hotel spa two days ago, and only informed him an hour beforehand, so Tom had had no chance to run down to the desk and cancel the appointment. Consequently, Tom had to put his dignity and his balls in the hands of a very understanding, very flamboyant guy from England who had warm fingers and a whole batch of torturous wax to rip every hair below the eyebrows out by the roots.

He hadn’t cried but, Christ, it had been close.

Now, Bill is taking advantage of the side effect of such a treatment – the skin left behind is _sensitive_ , and Tom whimpers involuntarily as Bill strokes his thumb across his balls, and behind, pressing gently into the flesh there. Tom flinches, but before he realises what he’s doing, he presses back, trying to increasing the force, needing to feel it.

“Good boy,” Bill praises, bringing his other hand to rub at Tom’s belly, just below his navel in the ‘V’ of his muscles, and he moans more. It’s nothing big, nothing too much – Bill would be bored with this kind of treatment after a few seconds, but for Tom, it’s the most attention he’s had paid to him and his body for _years_. He’s always turned it back on Bill, made Bill be the one to take it because he couldn’t bare touches on his body like this, but now – it’s a whole new world. He tries to rock down a little more, just to see if he likes it.

“ _Please!_ ” he whimpers, and he didn’t mean to say it. He’s still scared, still _petrified_ of what’s to come, but Bill is just taking so slowly, so gently that Tom wants more.

Bill shushes him again, his lips pursing before relaxing into a smile that takes Tom’s breath away with its depth and warmth. “You like this?” he asks, and he expects an answer because when Tom doesn’t respond, the sweet, soft caresses stop, and he asks again. “You want more?”

Tom turns his head into the pillow, and now that he’s being asked to communicate, his mouth has dried out, and his throat is tight. He wants more, but he doesn’t know what he wants more of, and Bill is asking him to confess it all anyway. He nods, pressing his cheek into the softness of the pillow, and Bill chuckles.

“ _What_ do you want more of, Tom?” he asks, and the laughter in his voice is warm and affectionate, but Tom is not in a place where he can share in it. He feels naked, embarrassed and confused enough as it is – he doesn’t need Bill pressuring him because he’s doing it enough on his own.

He shakes his head, compulsively chewing at his lip ring, and he tries to close his legs, not wanting Bill to touch him anymore if he’s going to be like that, but evidently that’s not allowed. Hands come between his legs, holding his knees apart, and Bill murmurs apologies at him, his voice low and gentle again.

“It’s okay, it’s okay… I’m sorry…” His hands caress Tom’s thighs again, rubbing at the tense muscle there until Tom unwillingly feels them relax, and Bill is able to press them further part. He’s back to being spread before Bill, but this time, it feels different.

Bill is kneeling now, leaning on his elbows between Tom’s open thighs, and he grins up at Tom. One finger gently caresses Tom’s flaccid dick, the dark nail polish flashing with candle light. “You with me again?” he asks, and Tom nods, his eyes widening as Bill carries on with the feather light touches. “Good boy,” Bill reassures again, and against all the odds, against all of Tom’s _expectations_ and predictions for tonight, his dick is actually beginning to respond to the sensations and attention being lavished on it. “There we go…” Bill grins down at his handiwork, and even though Tom is barely half hard, it’s more than has happened in months, so you know – credit is due.

“Oh _God_ ,” Maybe that’s a little too much credit, but Tom is finally feeling the beginnings of arousal coursing through his belly, making his nipples tighten and his blood turn hot and thick in his veins, and it’s _weird_ and _strange_ and _unfamiliar_. It’s been so long that it’s like doing it for the first time, really, and Bill soothes him down again from where he’s rutting up against the fingers still stroking at his dick.

“I like the sound of being called ‘God’,” Bill says, smirking, but Tom’s more focused on those divine hands that are now stroking at his dick, one over the other, from base to tip, thumbing at the head. He closes his eyes, the sight too intense for Tom to process it without getting confused and feeling strange. His belly tightens, and he moans into the pillow, fisting at the sheet with both hands. “You have no idea how you look right now, do you?” Bill takes one of his hands off of Tom’s dick, but he doesn’t stop stroking, and Tom doesn’t open his eyes. He doesn’t know what he looks like, and he doesn’t want to know.

But Bill thinks he does need to know, and when his other hand comes back again, slick with warm flavoured lube to leave Tom’s dick wet and free to slide between Bill’s fisted fingers, he carries on describing how Tom looks.

The words coming out of his mouth make Tom go from a faint pink to deep, flushed red streaming up his neck and over his cheeks – Bill doesn’t call him a whore, or a slut, or a bitch at all, and perhaps, Tom could have taken that. You can be sure you’re not a whore or a slut when the only person you’ve sex with is the one touching your dick, and Tom isn’t a bitch either because he’s not the one with the nickname _Diva_ in the band. But when Bill calls him _pretty_ and _sweet_ and _beautiful_ , it’s striking right at his core, at his heart. He’s absolutely open to Bill’s gaze, naked and exposed to everything, yet Bill calls him _beautiful_.

Maybe one day, he’ll learn to accept it, but tonight, he just turns his face away, colour turning his cheeks a raw red, and he moans in disagreement. His hard-on doesn’t abate however, still hot and red in the palm of Bill’s hand, and now, it is a hard-on. He’s fully erect without any drugs or help for the first time in months, and he almost believes in Bill’s promise at this moment – that he might actually orgasm tonight.

Until Bill leans down, and licks a hot, slow stripe up the underside of Tom’s dick, that is.

After that, Tom is more than halfway sure that Bill will do his damnedest to make that orgasm happen. A blow job from Bill is a promise of more, of _better_ for the rest of the night.

He bucks up, helplessly trying to follow Bill’s mouth, but all he gets is an arm across his belly holding him down and that hot mouth going back down on his dick. It’s not just perfect, it’s fucking _divine_ , and Tom feels surprisingly little shame for invoking the name of God again, begging for more.

“There we go.” Bill grins up at Tom a few minutes, having completely undone his own twin to the point of rocking down into the bed, shoving his fingers into his mouth to stop from crying out as long and as loud as he needs to. “No, I want to hear you, Tom,” he reprimands, standing up to pull the fingers from between Tom’s lips, but it’s not gonna happen. Tom shakes his head, pushing Bill away with his other hand. He can’t – he needs something there, something to keep his words away from Bill because he’s so fragile right now. He might say stuff that he doesn’t mean – or that he means too much. Which is worse, he doesn’t know. “Please.” Bill’s not begging, but he’s asking, and when he uses that voice, Tom knows that Bill expects obedience to his wishes, but he can’t.

“Let me hear you, Tom,” Bill insists, his voice quiet but firm. Tom moans into his fingers and flinches as Bill reaches down, thumbs Tom’s cock in an effort to convince him, but it’s not going to work. Tom sucks on his own fingers, and perhaps it’s going back to being a child, taking comfort from something so very basic, but he doesn’t care. He’s got the fear rising up again, starting low in his belly, shoving the arousal Bill created out of the way to leave a sick feeling under himself.

They agreed on this, they agreed for Bill to take the lead, and if necessary to push Tom where he doesn't want to go because it's what they - what _he_ needs, but right now, right now, he's scared and he wishes so fucking much he hadn't agreed to it. He knows that Bill wouldn't hurt him. He knows that - believes it right down to his soul and his bones, but at the moment, the stupid, scared part of him doesn't want to believe it.

Instead of going back to kneeling beside the bed, Bill stands up, stripping off the black dressing gown to reveal what Tom already knew. Bill is naked beneath the silk, his tattoos stark, against the paleness of his skin. The star on his belly flexes as he guides Tom to lie up the bed, moving the pillow as he climbs on afterwards.

They end up back to chest, Tom being spooned by Bill, and it’s the break in the intensity of sex and pleasure that Tom desperately needed. Bill strokes his belly, caressing it with gentle fingers as he murmurs into Tom’s neck, and Tom just takes it. Accepting the touch is a big thing for him, and even though his erection depletes a little, turning soft, he lets Bill touch him all over. Warm hands trail across his nipples, down his chest, massaging into the softness of his belly that he’s still working on shifting. It’s intimate, personal, and Bill kisses the back of Tom’s neck so gently it’s like silk brushes on his spine.

The alarm clocks have been taken away from the bedside tables, so Tom doesn’t know how long he lies there, being held together by Bill, but he assumes it’s been a while. Probably half an hour at least. He’s still half hard, and that’s a miracle all by itself, but he can feel Bill’s dick pressing into the back of his thighs, and he knows that Bill is still ready to go.

He turns over when Bill asks him to, accepting the kiss he gets once he’s face to face with his twin, and there’s a moment where Bill just looks into his eyes. What he’s asking, Tom doesn’t fully understand, but he tries to make himself as open to Bill as he can be. He doesn’t want to hide, but he’s so fragile, so delicate right now – and how he fucking _hates_ the word delicate when it’s applied to himself because he’s not supposed to be – that he can’t take abuse or too much intensity. He just can’t.

Bill kisses him again, sweet and soft and slick. There’s no pressure behind it – Bill keeps his hands above Tom’s waist, stroking at his back and just allowing Tom to explore his mouth in exchange for silence. The sound of the ocean drifts through the window, and Tom finds himself sinking back into the same calm that he found in the bath, the softening of the harsh edges of thoughts and his senses becoming blurred and gentled.

Only when he’s completely relaxed and pliant does Bill reach down, trace his fingers between Tom’s cheeks.

“Shush…” he murmurs, and Tom is lulled into the softness of his thoughts again. Bill takes his time, softly massaging each cheek with his hands, letting his thumb just rest over Tom’s entrance, stroking it gently. He doesn’t force his way inside, doesn’t try to make Tom take it before he’s ready; he just pushes his thigh between Tom’s legs. When Tom tries to move back, Bill tightens his grip on his brother, sliding further between Tom’s legs, and then the message is clear. Tom rocks down onto it, getting enough friction going to really grind down, and he gasps into Bill’s mouth.

“You like?” Bill asks, and Tom does like – it’s _dirty_. And he feels ridiculous for thinking it, but they never take the time to just do something like this, and it feels strong, and weird, and so fucking hot that he can’t think. The bullies at school always used to say he was weird, but if this is weird, weird is _good_. He ruts down harder, and Bill laughs as he shudders in pleasure.

So long. It’s been so long since he’s done this – but he’s enjoying it so damn much, that when Bill reaches for the lube that’s been discarded on the bedspread behind Tom, he hardly notices. He just enjoys the slow grind and thrust of Bill’s thigh to his dick, and it’s cheap, dirty but _thrilling_ sex, and he fucking _adores_ it.

He does, however, notice when Bill presses a single finger to his entrance, the lube lukewarm now and strange feeling on intimate skin. He stills, uncertain and confused about what to do now. Half of his brain is telling him to ignore it, or to accept it but just to carry on grinding away, and Tom really really wants to listen to that part because the grinding is _amazing_. Another part is saying to accept it and lie still because Bill wants him to, and Tom wants so desperately to make Bill happy and to make this work that he’d do anything. And a third part, quiet but increasing in volume the longer Tom holds still, tells him to turn away, to run away because it’s strange and scary, and they’ve hardly ever done this, and Bill is gonna…

Going to _what_? he savagely thinks, and it’s true. What can Bill do to him now? He’s done so much already - he knows Tom inside out and back to front, seen him naked and clothed and crying and drunk and high and happy and sad and everything in between. So even though the phrase _Bill is going to hurt me_ is going around in his mind, Tom resolutely looks forward at Bill’s shoulder. The soft curve of it belies the muscle and tone beneath the skin, and Tom counts the freckles with a determined sense of fatalism.

“Good boy, Tom,” The praise is quiet, murmured straight to Tom’s ear, and he nods, whimpering a promise to trust his brother. He has to. He has to.

Rather than just ramming a finger inside – unpleasant, even with lube – Bill takes his time, pressing gently, massaging around the tight ring of muscles until Tom stops tensing with enough force to snap that fine boned finger in two.

Tom apparently brings whole new meaning to the phrase, _tight ass_. He had _not_ been amused when Bill informed him of this fact. He’d been even _less_ amused when Bill offered to book him in for yoga classes specialising in ‘loosening up those inner muscles’. Genuine offer or no, it hadn’t been appreciated.

But now, Bill is just being gentle, petting Tom really, brushing his finger inside, and then, in the split second between breathing out and breathing in, he slides it in, where it meets with no resistance until Tom’s brain catches up again. He clenches down, but Bill isn’t dissuaded, crooking his finger to move within the tight confines, and Tom trembles. It feels _weird_ \- not good weird but bad weird - and he wonders if he should say no.

But then Bill kisses him again, and he’s kind of distracted by the lips against his.

By the time Bill stops kissing him, he’s up to two fingers, and ready to add a third as Tom ruts against his thigh, chest to chest and _needing_ to be closer, feeling heat course through his veins like fire in the blood. He’s so hard – Tom can’t remember the last time he was this desperate, this aching – it’s got to have been _years_ – probably… five years? Even before Tom stopped orgasming, he resented having to fight for the pleasure, and he can’t remember feeling like this for _ages_. And he doesn’t care, because right now, Bill’s got that third finger inside him, brushing against his prostate, and it’s fucking _amazing_.

“ **Bill!** ” he wails, gripping his twin’s shoulders with shaking hands. He needs something – he needs something _more_ than just fingers, and he will fucking _die_ if Bill doesn’t give it to him. He’ll curl up and have a heart attack or something, and then Bill will have to explain it to their management, and that’ll be one hell of an epitaph –

“Turn over.” Bill pulls his fingers out, reaching for the lube again, and Tom is confused – how should he turn over? Isn’t Bill going to take him face to face? Missionary might be slated as boring, but it’s so _good_. Face to face, able to touch and feel and _see_ what’s going on, it’s the best of every world as far Tom is concerned, and he was kinda hoping to be reminded of that now.

“Wha-?”

“On your front.” Bill is insistent, pushing Tom to roll onto his front, his lube slick fingers leaving cool trails on Tom’s chest and belly as Bill moves him just to his liking. “Spread your knees,” he adds, and before long, Tom is on hands and knees, his knees spread wide and _everything_ exposed to Bill’s roving gaze. Tom has never done it in this position – of course, he’s done it _to_ Bill; he’s not so hung up on missionary that he can’t appreciate a good fuck doggy style, thanks – but the four or five times he’s ever bottomed, it’s always been on his back, having Bill between his legs that way, and this is _weird_.

He stares down at the sheets, feeling his cheeks burn as Bill takes a second, looking over every inch of him. It’s horrifying, and he’s starting to regret agreeing to this all over again – he seems to be doing that a lot tonight, honestly – but Bill doesn’t give him a chance to turn over or call it quits.

Warm fingers delve back into Tom, and the change of angle is … Oh. _Wow_. Tom was quite sure that before was as good as a fingering got, but from this angle Bill can hit his prostate from all sides, caress it with the pad of his finger before stroking either side of it, and the changes in sensation are just mindblowing. A bit. Tom whimpers as Bill laughs because he’s fucking himself back onto those fingers already, wanting more and more, but he can’t give a damn. He’s riding an edge he had given up on ever riding again, and it’s all the more raw and strange for its unfamiliarity, so Bill can just cram it up Tom’s backside, and _please would he hurry it up?_

Bill carries on toying with him, but Tom can hear some odd noises from behind him, and when he turns to look in the wardrobe mirror – he sees Bill on his knees, fingers of one hand disappearing inside of Tom and the other hand slicking up his own dick, head thrown back in impatient pleasure.

It’s a harrowing sight for Tom – it’s _real_ , it’s _happening_ , he’s gonna get fucked by his brother on his hands and knees, and Bill’s gonna make him orgasm, or, at least, he’s going to die trying. He can’t – Tom can’t do this, and he tries to back out, shaking his head, because he can’t do this. It’s too real, too close, too much, and he can’t do this – they need to stop and rethink, and maybe it’s not such a good idea after all, you know? Viagra’s not such a bad thing, really –

“ _No!_ ” Bill’s voice is firm, and he’s got a firm grip around the back of Tom’s neck, forcing him to stay down, pressing every inch of his body along Tom’s. His weight drives Tom deeper into fear, but it’s a form of restraint too – he’s so close, surrounding Tom in every possible way, and his dick fits so perfectly down between Tom’s cheeks that it could have been designed for it. He’s rutting into Tom, practically humping him as Tom has to brace his arms or risk being crushed into the sheets. “Stay where you are, baby.” He kisses down the back of Tom’s neck, laving his tongue down the column of spine there. “Stay down.”

Tom trembles, staring down at the sheets, trying to pick out the individual threads because he’s so afraid, so confused, oscillating between the amazing sensations of Bill all around him and the dark fear that keeps trying to break out. Tears start to fall, and he’d be ashamed, but right now, he’s more focused on Bill’s hand that’s caressing his belly, reaching up to tweak his nipples. He jolts as Bill strokes the pad of his thumb across it again, the darkened nub hypersensitive and connected via express route to Tom’s dick.

“You’re doing so good.” Bill’s voice is deep – deeper than Tom remembers it, and he tries to relax, but he’s sweating with panic. There’s no rush now, Bill sprawls on top of him, a blanket of twin across Tom’s back, rocking against him as fine fingers map his stomach and chest and neck, finding his jugular pulse and resting there.

Tom swallows, feeling his heartbeat skip and increase at the intimate touch, but Bill doesn’t move his hand, doesn’t leave him alone, and gradually, oh so gradually… he doesn’t have a choice. He has to calm down. He’s been saturated with fear, flooded with it, and now he has to let it go. It’s not his decision to make; it’s his own body’s choice, and Tom lets instinct take over.

“That’s good, Tom.” Bill presses his cheek against Tom’s back, but he’s taking his own weight now, and Tom’s grateful for that. Bill’s kinda heavy, really, for all that he looks like a skinny little waif. They stay there, Bill hanging over Tom, but now they’re just connected through Bill’s hand on Tom’s neck and his dick resting between Tom’s cheeks, and Tom breathes deeply. He’s surrounded by Bill, enveloped in a cocoon of twinness, and it’s good and warm and safe. He knows this. He knows _Bill_ , and he should be fine.

When Bill lifts off, reaching for the condom, Tom shakes his head, moaning into the pillow. They usually have sex with a condom – for quick clean up and safety’s sake, but tonight – he doesn’t want one. Even the sheer, thin layer of latex between him and Bill is too much for him to think about tonight. Bill hesitates, half caught in the act of tearing the condom apart with one hand and his teeth, and Tom shakes his head again, arching back to make him point.

No condom. No distance. Nothing between them.

“Awesome,” Bill says, throwing the condom on the floor, and Tom remembers that Bill _hates_ wearing them because he thinks they’re artificial and weird and strange, but they’ve gotten used to them. But bareback sex is _better_ than sex with a condom, and so he relishes the opportunity that Tom grants him.

Bill slicks himself up again, and oh, so carefully, he guides himself to Tom’s entrance, not pressing inside yet but just resting on the outside. He strokes down Tom’s back, caressing the tenseness with delicate fingers.

His dick feels warm, heavy and _final_ , and Tom shivers in anticipation.


	5. Chapter 5

 

**...The War is Won  
**

**~*~**

 

Slowly, so very, very very slowly, he pushes in. It’s not rushed; it’s not forced but a slow, steady pressure and a conviction in his face as Tom observes their union in the mirror. It aches and burns even after the preparation – not as much as if they’d done nothing at all – nothing will top that, but Bill isn’t small. Tom feels every single centimetre as Bill gives it to him, and he hardly dares to breathe.

“So good,” Bill whimpers, his control fracturing for a second as he bottoms out, his face a study of wondrous tension and pride, “So fucking _tight!_ ” he hisses as Tom breathes in.

“G-glad to h-help.” And maybe he’s breathless and panting too, but Tom’s dick is still half hard, and that’s worrying him.

He feels like he should be back to aching and hard by now, but Bill doesn’t let him reach a hand down to jack himself back up – “Just let it happen,” he admonishes Tom, and then – _holy fuck_ – he starts to move, a slow and gentle grind back and forth. It’s _tiny_ , but Tom can feel down it to his bones as the dick in his backside moves gently over his prostate, the highly neglected gland suddenly exposed to a multitude of sensations and **liking** it. “There we go,” Bill laughs breathlessly as Tom lets his head drop, trying to fuck back onto Bill’s cock a little more, a little harder.

He wants it.

He’s still oscillating in fear in his head; his heart still thinks double-time is too slow, but his brain is being circumvented by his dick, the need to come, to have _sex_ suddenly rising up faster and harder than it had ever done before – even _pre­-no sex days_. Kinda weird. A lot weird. A lot fucking _amazing_ , and he doesn’t bother thinking about it anymore.

It’s gentle though, even for them, Bill taking it easy and just rolling his hips into Tom as he kneels on the bed, and Tom braces himself on trembling arms, needing Bill’s hand on the back of his neck to make sure he doesn’t start to panic. Long fingers curl into his hair, around the side of his neck, and he pants, made to look straight down, only able to glance occasionally at the mirror on the wardrobe that shows their coupling. The candlelight makes their skin look like gold, highlighting Bill’s stark black ink and bright silver jewellery in his nipple, his eyebrow, the rings on his fingers, the chains around his neck and wrists.

Tom adores Bill’s jewellery, revels in the metal and leather and lace and plastic accessories, and he’s suddenly, inappropriately grateful that Bill’s kept them on. He knew Bill would – the sound of sex for them is intermingled with the cool of silver and platinum and white gold against sweat slick skin. His hair is tied back, exposing his face, and as Tom turns to fully face the mirror, he can see himself in that face – the same nose, the eyes, the jaw.

He moans as Bill flashes him the tongue stud, knowing without looking away from where he is joined to Tom that his brother is looking, and that’s because Tom is a visual person. He likes to see, to watch, to observe, and Bill is a… is an exhibitionist to say the least.

He blows a kiss to Tom, the warmth in his eye radiant and overt to say the least. “You okay, baby?” he asks, stuttering a little as Tom clenches down.

Is Tom okay?

No. He’s scared. His belly is tightening against the orgasm that builds – it’s far off now, a distant thing, but it’s there, and this time Tom doesn’t know that he can stop it. He’s feeling sick, and hot, and damp all over, and it’s _intense_. Baptism of the fire of sex from the inside out, whatever that means. His elbows are locked, and he’s staying upright by sheer strength of will, but Bill is chipping away at said will. He’s forcing Tom lower and lower into the sheets, making him give in little by little, and they both know that it’s a fight that Tom will not win.

He will not.

He cannot.

“Shush, Tom.” Bill runs a hand down Tom’s side, and his voice is no longer just inflected with pleasure – there’s worry there as well, because Tom is whimpering, moaning, a constant thin high pitched noise as his orgasm climbs higher and higher. He doesn’t know what he wants – he doesn’t understand the signals his body is telling him, and he doesn’t like it. “No, - stay down – _stay down!_ ” Bill demands it, grabbing Tom’s dreads and _yanking_ his head back up, exposing his throat but making getting up – moving away – virtually impossible. Tom wants to drop his head, hide away as he rolls over, but Bill makes him stay on his knees, makes him stay where he is. “ _You. Will. Listen. To. Me._ ” Tom’s never felt the pressure so much, so quickly, and he sobs.

He’s never cried during sex – before, occasionally, after, certainly, - but never during, but now he can’t stop the tears rising, his chest heaving as he moans and pants and hitches his way into drawing oxygen in.

Tom rocks back and forth now, but it’s not to get more of Bill’s dick, it’s to try to get some form of distance between him and Bill – it’s all too close, too much, to _everything_ , and he wants to crawl away again. Bill sighs loudly, the sound a little frustrated, and he yanks at Tom’s elbows, forcing him to fall to the mattress and rest on his shoulders, his face turned towards the mirror. “You can do this,” he whispers. “Stay with me, Tom.” But Tom can’t do this – why is Bill aksing him to? Why is Bill asking him to do this when he knows that Tom _can’t_. “Yes, you can. Yes, you can,” Bill murmurs over and over again, one hand still around Tom’s neck, the other holding onto his hip, caressing the skin there with his thumb.

“Need you, Bill.” Tom doesn’t have the breath or the understanding to elaborate what he needs, what he _wants_ from Bill, but his brother understands – his _lover_ understands.

“Come here,” Bill pulls out, the pain of separating them brief but a touch raw, and he turns Tom over, goes back to missionary, and Tom wonders if they should have started here in the first place. Bill lies over him, braced on his hands and knees in the exact mimicry of Tom’s previous position, and he holds Tom’s gaze firmly. “You are safe,” he says, and the words are simple.

The concept is not.

Because Tom doesn’t feel safe right now – Bill is driving him further and further onwards, up that slippery slope of orgasm, and Tom remains convinced that when he tumbles, arching, bruised and bloody over the top of it, he will end up in a endless moment of free fall, only able to observe his own crash and burn at the foot of the mountain.

And there will be no Bill.

He can’t risk losing that – the feelings are so intense, so raw and strong and bound to his own heart that he honestly and truly believes that the other side of that, the other side of the white light is a life without being so closely bound to Bill.

Because that’s what it always felt like before. Well… not always. For a short time, he enjoyed the pleasure as it came, took pride in it, but as he and Bill became closer, as he began to entertain the notion of soulmates and bonds for life, he felt Bill tangle himself around his heart. And then, there wasn’t room for both pleasure and Bill – Tom’s heart is not that big, not that brave, to expand yet again, and he felt like Bill’s connection to him faded at the zenith of their connection.

Tom _will_ not risk losing Bill for the sake of hormones and adrenaline and sex. He will not. He cannot.

But Bill seems to think it’s okay to keep shoving him towards that horrific, gaping horizon, and it’s just not okay anymore.

Bill pushes back in again, sheathed to the hilt, leaning over Tom, covering every inch of him, and it’s too much; it’s too close – leave me **alone** , Tom wants to shout, but Bill shakes his head when Tom tries to speak.

“No. Let it happen,” he orders, and Tom is panting too hard by that point to say anything. He doesn’t want this though, and he tenses, trying to bring Bill off through sheer pressure alone. “Stop it!” Bill reaches down, rubs his thumb over Tom’s right nipple, and the change in sensation makes Tom moan and relax without meaning to. “That’s good, Tom.” Bill’s eyes aren’t hazy and lust filled this time – they’re crystal clear, and he’s absolutely focused on Tom.

No. Look away.

Tom turns his head away; craning his neck out of Bill’s reach to stop the kissing that he knows is coming. He needs something else, something different, and it’s not Bill’s kisses, intoxicating though they are, that will work now. He doesn’t know what he wants though, and that’s frightening him – it’s just a roaring, nameless, voiceless ache in his belly, sparks behind his eyes and an overwhelming urge to _give in_.

He barely even realises that he’s moaning out _no, no, no, no, no_ , constantly, a persistent denial of what’s happening to him.

“Shush, Tom,” Bill rolls his hips again but then goes still. He’s waiting for something, his entire body reading the kind of determined patience that’s so fucking irritating, and Tom shakes his head, nearly crying. He’s stuck somewhere between orgasm and black terror, and Bill won’t leave him alone, and _why won’t he just come?_

Bill rocks further into Tom, making him shudder, and the tears fall again. He’s actually crying now, so scared and worried and needing to release what’s happening inside of himself.

The sobbing doesn’t make Bill let up; on the contrary, it seems to drive him even further into fucking Tom, and it doesn’t seem to matter to him that Tom’s shuddering and gasping, tears streaming down his face into his hair. He grabs for Bill’s shoulders, and for a moment, he’s unsure if he’s trying to pull Bill nearer or push him away.

And then Bill grins down at him, and Tom knows that he has to stop this dead. Now.

“G-get off of me!” Tom’s arms are supposed to shove Bill away in one smooth movement, but he’s weak, and he just ends up splaying his fingers across Bill’s chest, pathetically trying not to whimper as he’s fucked slowly and steadily into the mattress. “Bill – stop – no, stop!”

“No.” Bill’s answer is firm, final, and very, very frightening to Tom. No? Why won’t he stop? Tom’s had enough; he can’t do this.

“Let me go!” His voice is high and breathy, but he thinks he might get this point across if he shoves at Bill again, pushing his trembling hands against Bill’s chest. “Stop, Bill – I can’t-“

“Yes, you can.” Bill shakes his head, and Tom spreads his legs, trying to get enough traction to move up and away from Bill, but the sheets are painfully smooth, and he just keeps sliding around. “Stop – _stop!_ ” Bill grabs onto Tom’s hands, holding them down against the mattress with his entire body weight as he just carries on, and fuck, that _hurts!_

“No – I can’t – I want to stop!” The tears won’t stop falling, and the tightening in his belly is half fear, half pleasure, and the only thing in Tom’s mind is that he can’t do this.

“Shush, Tom.” Bill tries to kiss him again, but if he won’t stop, then he’s not getting fucking kisses from Tom. “You can do this.”

“Can’t. I can’t. It – no –“ Tom’s brain is incapable of forming a logical argument anymore, and he shudders...

Bill stops again – “I have you. You’re safe. You’re okay.” He’s staring straight into Tom’s eyes, serious and controlled, and Tom can’t bare to look. Desperation is flooding every single cell now, and he wants out.

But that’s not going to happen.

“Shush, you’re okay.” Bill tries to soothe Tom down again, stroking a hand down his chest, but it’s not enough. Tom wants out, he wants out _yesterday_ , and he’s all but whimpering in fear now. Bill needs to leave him alone and let him just do –

“I have you,” Bill braces his elbows either side of Tom’s head, forcing him to look up or shut his eyes. Tom chooses to shut his eyes because this is just… he can’t. He won’t. “You’re safe. I have you.”

“Please, Bill!” Tom is absolutely certain that this is quite possibly the most unattractive sex he will ever have – what a highlight to finish his sexual career on, really – but the sparks behind his eyes are gold and white, and he knows he’s close. His belly tightens, and his chest feels like a herd of elephants are sitting on it.

“I have you. You’re okay. You’re safe.” Bill keeps repeating that – _you’re safe_ – as he thrusts back into Tom, a horrendous sensation of pleasure coursing through him.

He’s not safe. He’s being forced over the edge, and even though this is what they agreed – to let Bill take command and run roughshod over any objections unless he feels it’s getting out of hand, Tom doesn’t trust him. Not now. He needs - out… where is out…. he needs an out….

“Let it happen, Tom,” The words are quiet, whispered into Tom’s ear as he turns to face the mirror. He doesn’t want to, but the view captivates him – Bill laying a top of him, long limbed and glowing the yellow light, his face hidden as he stares down at Tom. “Let yourself go,”

He sobs, broken and wide open for Bill now, his eyes burning, his face hot and damp from sweat and tears, and Bill kisses him. Again and again, little pecks, deep soul crushing ones, gentle slip and slide of lips, he does it all.

Tom rides the crest of a wave towards an end he doesn’t understand.

“I’m here, Tom, I am here.” Bill kisses him, just rocking into him, and Tom clings to him, needing to feel skin to skin all over. His dick is hard, rubbing between his and Bill’s bellies, and Bill’s just rocking to him, gentle and sweet, nothing too rough.

Bill nuzzles into Tom’s neck, kissing over the pulse there, and Tom unwillingly – so painfully, – so painfully it’s like the blinding flash of light that precedes migraines – gives himself over to Bill, forcing himself not to fight, to keep his arms around Bill.

Bill kisses him.

It’s not harsh and aggressive. It’s sweet, tender and full of love and emotion, as though Bill is trying to express everything he feels in physical form, and Tom can’t help himself.

He’s riding the edge, cutting so close to the peak of climax that he can no longer fight to stay away. His belly tightens, and his eyes close because staring at Bill when he’s so vulnerable is going to kill him.

“I have you,” Bill whispers, and his hand is warm as it wraps around Tom’s dick, stroking away the last of the mental barriers between Tom and orgasm. “I have you, Tomi. You’re right here, and I’ve got you safe…”

The light burns, and Tom doesn’t understand, but he _knows_ that Bill is right.

When Tom comes, he becomes nothing but a physical conduit of pleasure, spanning between his soul and his heart, and his physical self no longer matters any more.

\--

“…Tom?” The voice in his ear is quiet but clear.

He can’t speak to respond, but he feels a hand in his, and he squeezes it. His strength is virtually gone, but there’s just enough left to allow him to send Bill a message that he’s actually alive.

There’s nothing left inside of him now – he’s an empty shell, floating along in the river of bliss. He doesn’t feel pain or anything – he can’t tell if he’s been separated from Bill or if he’s actually transcended bodies and they’re now sharing the same one.

Huh. It’s been so long, he’s actually entertaining the possibility of that being a real outcome.

“I have you.” Bill is spooning him from behind, holding him tight. “You’re okay. I’m here,”

Tom is crying.

Twenty seven months. More than two years. The hardest two years he’s ever had – not even the _years_ of hell in school could count against the feelings of betraying his twin by having to lie and cheat his way through the physical act of sex.

And it’s the end of the road for that.

Bill is still there. He’s there inside Tom’s heart, wrapped tighter around him than ever before, his very soul intertwined with Tom’s more so than it used to be. Tom tests the bond, lightly, so lightly. Feather touches against the raw nerves that join them, but Bill stays there. His presence inside Tom’s heart remains as strong as ever.

They’re still twins.

And when the tears fall again, Bill doesn’t laugh at him, doesn’t tell him he’s being stupid. He lays kisses down Tom’s neck, pressing his hand into the pulse in the side of Tom’s throat, and Tom can feel his own heartbeats. They’re not steady, but they tell him he’s alive, and he’s still a separate person. He’s still Tom.

Every breath shudders in and out of him, and he feels so raw. So naked. Like Bill has peeled back his flesh, spread his ribs, cracked his breastbone in two, and left him open to the elements, made him take off layer after layer of skin and armour until all that’s left is just… just him. Just his soul.

“You’re safe.” Bill’s thumb caresses the side of Tom’s neck, a constant reminder of Tom’s own physical limits. “I’m still here. Still inside of you.”

“…L-love you,” He whispers, and Bill stills for a second. The words aren’t new, but when Tom is feeling like this, there’s nothing but honesty in his voice, and Bill is probably a little caught off guard.

“Love you, too.” A kiss laid against the nape of his neck proves that Bill speaks the truth.

“Stay with me?” Tom asks, and he knows that Bill might not think of moving right now, but he’s so unsure that he needs to ask.

“Always.”

Always. Tom gazes sightlessly at the ceiling, holding Bill’s hand, and he waits for the moment to drift away. But it doesn’t go – it stays, and swells, and holds Tom in it’s palm.

Bill’s hand remains splayed on his heart, and Tom breathes in. Bill is in sync with him. Beautifully together. Heart beats matching, curled up, one inside the other, and it’s _right_. It’s exactly how it’s to have been, and Tom suddenly understands that. He wouldn’t have lost Bill – not permanently. It would have been coming _closer_ together.

It had never been about the sex. Never about the biological, technical, chemical impulses of his body – it had _always_ been his heart and his soul that needed Bill. And the longer he waited, the more he delayed, the less he gave of himself to Bill, driving them both into a sort of emotional anorexia.

And then, finally…. It had come to a head, and by placing himself in his brother’s hands, Tom had finally dropped every barrier that separated him and Bill.

“You knew?”

“I guessed.” Tom is hurt that Bill would have chanced everything on this if he wasn’t absolutely sure, but Bill pulls him onto his side, stares deep into Tom’s eyes. “I thought… if it didn’t work, then it was another thing that didn’t work, but we didn’t have any, to lose by trying.”

“I could – I thought I would lose you!”

“But you didn’t.” Bill draws his hand down Tom’s chest, letting it trail across Tom’s almost there abs. “You’re still here, and so am I, and we’re _better_ than before.”

“It was dangerous.”

“Danger, Tom,” Bill kisses him, smothering his protests and rendering Tom silent so he can carry on, “is something that you have to face up to sometimes.”

And Tom holds onto Bill’s hand, remembering the intensity, the wash of emotions that was an ocean retreating before the cataclysmic tsunami that followed.

He strokes a shaking finger down the side of Bill’s face, and the dark eyes that track his every movement are as familiar to him as breathing and life. He’s never been free of them nor would he wish to be. Bill is here. He’s _here_. He’s…

He’s inside of Tom.

And a part of Tom resides in Bill, a tiny fragment carefully teased out and stored inside Bill’s heart.


End file.
